


Love Is A Battlefield

by Monty_Fromage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Punk!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monty_Fromage/pseuds/Monty_Fromage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson attends his classes during his second semester at a university while working for the same job he has for months now. Sometimes, though, he dreams of a life less dull and ordinary. A little excitement was what he wanted. Unbeknownst to himself, he was about to fall into a whole pot of excitement that he wasn't quite prepared for. In the form of a lanky, pale punk named Sherlock Holmes. John begins to struggle with concerned friends, work, and classes get out of hand while falling for this new found friend and the dangerous life he lives. Is he truly prepared for the life that has been placed before him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is A Battlefield

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE CHARACTERS, PEOPLE, AND PLACES MENTIONED IN THIS STORY! The characters of Sherlock belong to BBC and most of the locations, businesses, landmarks, etc. belong to their respective owners.

It was an in incredibly dull day in London, as was every day, or so it seemed for the past few weeks. Work at Sex and Acme Attractions had been slower than usual. Opened in 1972 and located in the original, pale brick building it started in, the small dark shop had a character of its own, with sloped floors and black-out windows. Acme catered to the punk lifestyle with clothing, music, posters, magazines, and other similar wares. John Watson had gotten a job while he attended university as a clerk. Nearly going looney from bored, he glanced through the latest issue of Suburban Voice. He stood, shorter than most, at only 173 centimeters and streaks of turquoise ran through his blond hair. Today he donned a pair of black jeans - ripped at the knees and a few sizes too small - with the legs tucked into boots. A sleeveless denim cut-off covered with patches of bands and obscenities stenciled all over it donned his person. The overhead radio blared The Sex Pistols, Johnny Lydon’s voice almost tuned out by the music as he sang ‘God Save The Queen’. The chime of the doorbell almost went completely unheard by John, so he barely caught a glimpse of the bloke that had entered. 

Spiked wristbands, tight black leather pants with a matching collar around his neck, a white a-shirt covered with dark splotches, and a black waistcoat. A thick, curly tuft of black hair rest atop his head with one side shaved. The stranger subconsciously ran his tongue over the silver hoop that ran through the right corner of his mouth as he glanced at the merchandise, paying no attention to John.

John raised an eyebrow, the piercing that ran through it slid up as he did so. He let his gaze fall back down to the magazine, casually scanning through it. Focused just enough in the tribute article to The Stooges, more specifically the photo of a near nude Iggy Pop, John failed to notice the stranger approach the counter. Sherlock cleared his throat; John quickly lifted his head and found himself staring into bluish-grey eyes. There were several seconds of awkward silence as all colour left John’s face. His eyes fell onto a tattoo that looked like a honeycomb located at the curve where neck met shoulder that disappeared under the bloke’s waistcoat. The other shoulder looked like a bouquet of red flowers steadily forming into two intertwined green ribbons.

“Yes?” the other’s smooth, baritone voice was purely euphoric.

“Right! How may I help you, sir?” John had been caught and called out for staring at the other. Fortune smiled on John though when the other chose to not be a complete git about it. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Yes, I’m in search for a shirt. I hear your prices are reasonable.”

“Aye,” John said eagerly “if you go down to World’s End or McLaren Westwood’s, you’re dishing out thirty pounds for a decent shirt and sixty pounds for a mohair jumper. They’re out of their minds! The Pistols had it wrong when they called it Anarchy In The U.K.! Corporations see a largely untapped market that will pay through the nose. It’s turning into Avarice in The U.K.! Either way, you’re going to want to head down to the back to the corner there. It’s where we keep a lot of our clearance items.” 

“Thanks,” the other stated flatly.

John attempted to focus back into the magazine before him, and then started checking stock on the computer before him, but to no avail. His glance kept straying to the corner of the store where the customer had wandered off to. Perhaps he needed some help picking something else? 

Perhaps he’d need help trying it on was the more appropriate question. Now that was a thought! As if on cue, the customer reappeared at the counter and dropped a skimpy, ripped t-shirt.

“Would you like anything else today, mate?” John inquired, scanning the tag.

“No, this is it,” Sherlock replied hastily, keeping his responses short.

“So, never seen you around here before; you visit any of the local clubs?”

“Hardly.”

With that the man was gone. The rest of the day was ridiculously dull, with the exception of Mary, the psycho-hived manageress; she was as intimidating as the store, and she dressed like a sadistic Tiller girl, carried a whip, and hissed at everyone when she talked. She allowed John to leave early due to the lack of business. She had the ulterior motive also of closing shop early so she could have an extra hour of getting ready to hit the clubs. It was a Friday night and one had to look their best. 

Back at his flat, John stalked past the nude Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson sleeping together on the couch. John was utterly sick of insisting that they keep their shagging strictly in Phillip’s room, and out of his sight. John and Phillip had been best mates since primary school, and as soon as they found out they were attending the same university, they got a flat together. Ironically enough, Phillip was the exact opposite of John. He was a straight-laced lad, studying to go into forensics. While his girlfriend, Sally, was a bit of a twat at times, she loved Phillip and cared about him. Phillip and Sally met each other in a pub one evening and shared the common interest of the same major and three classes their first semester together. A characteristic John both despised and respected her for was her directness and honesty about everything on her mind.

Flopping onto his bed, John pondered over what to do. He could go out to the club, yes, but there just wasn’t any fun with it. Plenty of eye candy, sure, and most blokes were down with dancing with him; but it seldom went farther than that. As a single guy, he had desires and needs; just something in his life aside from the mundane day-to-day occurrences. Go to classes, go to work, get a few drinks at the pub, go to his dorm, and start all over again. Any form of excitement would have been fine. Steadily, weariness crept upon him and before he could make a solid decision, John was fast asleep.

John was roused from his sleep an hour or so later by screams from their neighbors; they were having another quarrel. The married couple next door was obviously arguing again, which was no surprise as their rows always seemed to be a few decibels short of a heavy metal concert. Finally dragging himself from his bed, he glanced in the mirror before shrugging in silent acceptance that his appearance was fine. His flat mate had already gone with his girlfriend, or they at least had the decency to move into a more private location. With that, John was out of the flat and heading down the street.

~o~o~

Sherlock sat in a lone corner of The Intrepid Fox. It was a rather popular bar amongst the punk and goth communities of London. Candles, skulls, and a vast array of posters littered the wall, fully setting the mood. Remote from the bars other patrons, he frequented the bar for their music and interior style. He would come to lose his identity in a cloud of makeup and eye-liner. It also allowed Sherlock to think, relax, and escape the oppressive nature of his brother, who was one of the youngest to be inducted into the government. It wasn’t long thereafter Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother, had all but controlled the government. After this, Mycroft had done his best to keep Sherlock on a shorter leash than the one Mycroft himself was kept on.

The bar was home to one of the more popular up-and-coming bands, Florentine. They were set to perform tonight, but as it approached the hour for their show no one had seen hide nor hair of them. It was a slow night at the bar anyway. It was no matter if they showed up on time or not.

He flicked his tongue over the steel hoop piercing his lower lip, lost in thought. His fingers drummed the cold bottle in front of him, the perspiration on it sticking to the palm of his hand as he held it. Sherlock had donned a black Sex Pistols shirt, the sleeves being held on by several silver pins, and he wore the same tight leather pants as before. His eyes scanned over the huddled masses of the others in the bar. Sherlock took a sip from the lager before the door to the bar flew open, snapping him out of his reverie. In stepped an all too familiar young man. It took Sherlock only moments to recognize him; it was the clerk that he had spoken to at the shop.

Sherlock noted a small hint of blood trickling from the corner of John’s mouth. John spoke for a few moments with the bartender before choosing a remote spot along the wall opposite the bar and flopped down in a seat. The young man was quite dashing. 

With that thought, Sherlock grabbed the nearly empty bottle and chugged the last of it down. Silently, he stalked across the wooden floor before towering over John; he eyed the blonde, his expression flat and eyes almost empty. John’s face flushed as he looked up to see who stood over him. It was him!

(Here’s the part where you can change the game up a bit. The dialogue between John and Sherlock is really similar to that of the ACD books. Since this is a modern AU, you probably want to go with modern language. If anything, you could refer to the speech patterns of BBC’s Sherlock. He’s not all Mr. Dictionary all of the time. BBC’s Sherlock uses words like “lots” and “oopsie”. Not to mention when he’s behaving like a petulant child towards Mycroft, he likes to use the phrase “what for?”, which ends the sentence with a preposition. Just keep in mind that you want to match the dialogue with the time frame and the target audience. Parts that I think you could change the dialogue will be marked with ***.) :D

“I do hope I’m not intruding,” Sherlock stated as he flopped into the seat across from John the same way as John had done just moments ago. “Not like you’re going to have any guests joining you tonight, so it seems.”

“How did you-“

“So, I’ve never seen you at The Fox before, what brings you here tonight?”

“Uh-“

“Don’t start sentences like that and wear an expression like I’m your mother, catching you wanking for the first time. It’s very unbecoming of you.”

Several moments of silence between the two passed before John finally spoke, “Right. Nice to meet you, mate, I’m John Watson.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes,” the taller man offered a slender, skeletal hand.

John took his hand gingerly and shook it. After that, Sherlock gestured to the tall, dark skinned bartender. His face round and his hair cropped. Raising an eyebrow, the man stepped around the bar and dropped down two bottles of lager with a grunt before heading back to where he stood before. John raised an eyebrow at this before looking puzzled at Sherlock.

“I helped him out when one of the other bars attempted to have this place shut down by sending in a minor with a fake driver’s license. It wasn’t too difficult to deduce what had occurred and track the pleb down. I found him rather willing to confess with little trouble.” Sherlock shot John a wicked smile.

“Well, that is impressive,” John eyed the other cautiously.

“The fact that you changed after work, tidied your hair after a nap, and managed to clean the dirt out from your fingernails before leaving the house implies you have desire and need for people to like and possibly admire you. This is also proof that you are subconsciously critical of yourself. Despite your well-disciplined and confident appearance you are quite insecure about yourself; this of course is because of the fight you got in due to your tendency of liking other men. Also the fact you’re visiting a bar you’ve probably only heard of in passing while the other ‘normal’” he rolled his eyes and his voice near venomous at the mention of normal, “people talk about it in hushed tones means you’re not content with your life right now. Most people your age seek the comfort of the blaring bass and gyrating mass of sweaty bodies in a club. Yet you chose to come to this little haven instead that you’ve never been to before. Shall I go on? Or is that enough proof for you that I’m not some sadistic loon?”

“Well, that was…” John’s voice trailed off for a moment as if he was seeking the proper word, “Brilliant, mate! Utterly brilliant! Yes, I got jumped by three of them. Fucking teddy boys traipsing about like characters straight out of a Clockwork Orange in their outdated clothes trying to start shit with our kind.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock responded, “The usual response is a punch thrown typically towards my nose. And yes, that lot is truly frustrating.”

“I don’t see why, you have a natural talent!” Excitement filled John’s voice, but soon an expression of recognition crossed his face, “Also, sorry about earlier at the shop.”

“For?”

“Oh, just staring like that, your tattoos just-“

“Yet I stayed. I’ll leave you to your own calculations as to what that means.”

“Wait? What that means? What are you implying? And how did you know I got into a fight?”

“The slightly dried blood on the corner of your mouth you managed to miss as you cleaned yourself up earlier when you first entered. Also, most of the brainless jocks at the university like to hang around the area as if we were animals in a zoo on display. I can imagine they called you ‘poof’ or ‘queer’. Granted, they just assume anyone that looks different from the social norm, that is to say people like us, must be a homosexual. Granted, you can’t expect much from folk with terribly low intellects that just ride on the hope that their skills at sports will land them on a professional football team.” 

Sherlock had put down two more lagers over the course of the conversation while John had barely started his second one.

“Brilliant!” John was laughing at Sherlock’s words. He certainly wasn’t wrong.

“You do seem to fancy that word.” Sherlock paused for a moment, studying John’s face. Maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but there was something about this man that drew Sherlock to him. “Do you like Florentine?”

“Who?” John inquired.

“Florentine, local group, really popular, started out here. You should look into them sometime.”

“Ah, I’m not overly fond of music myself.”

“Oh.” Sherlock almost sounded disappointed. “Does the violin bother you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Mum encouraged me rather forcefully as a child. She took my brick dust and dirt samples from surrounding cities from me, until I agreed to play the violin. So I play the violin, I find it helps me focus.” 

Sherlock’s gaze was focused across the bar at a portion of the wall between a Siouxsee and The Banshees poster and a Crass poster. It was definitely the several bottles of beer had consumed over the course of the evening that was getting to him. Sherlock pushed his final bottle away, the remaining quarter of amber liquid sloshing inside it as he did. John polished off his second drink finally, setting the bottle down onto the table.

“Perhaps you would like to go somewhere a bit quieter?” Sherlock tilted his head inquisitively as he asked. The bar had begun to fill up rapidly which meant the inevitable; Forentine was going on soon. Apparently the time had only been pushed back, rather than cancelled.

“Sure!” John responded perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

An unnerving smile crossed Sherlock’s face, “I know just the place.”

John was a bit of a light weight and those two drinks were enough to make him blame his judgments on his drinking when morning came. It was a favorite pastime of Phillip’s to call john a ‘two beer queer’, since that was just about what it took to get him tipsy.

Sherlock was the first to slide out of the booth and, with smooth precision, he slung his coat over one arm and caught it by sliding the other arm through the sleeve. He reached into the coat’s pocket and dropped down a few bills before heading for the door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure John was following.

“Bollocks,” Sherlock muttered as he stepped outside. The music in the bar was loud enough to drown out the sound of the rain coming down, hard and fast.

“We’re not going too far away are we? While I don’t mind getting wet, I don’t look forward to tromping about in wet clothes.” Grimacing as he spoke, John was quickly regretting not bringing a brolly.

After a moment of consideration, Sherlock slid his coat off and held it over his head and nodded for John to join him under it. With a smile, John quickly joined the other. Sherlock found it kind of nice to have John so close. Though, his pleasant thoughts ceased as John spoke, bringing Sherlock’s attention back to the situation at hand.

“So, where is this place anyway?”

“It’s a hidey-hole I use when I am dodging my brother’s ever watchful eye,” Sherlock sneered when he spoke of his brother. 

The two took off at a brisk pace and crossed several streets before reaching what looked like a line of Victorian era shops and buildings. Long ago it was used for reenactments and comedic sketches. The interior of the building which was changing rooms and storage had been abandoned long ago and in a state of disrepair. Sherlock routed John around to the side of the building and passed the coat off to the smaller man. Sherlock gave slight shove to dumpster, sliding the metal contraption to the side to reveal a door. Standing in the rain, Sherlock motioned for John to enter.

“Thanks for letting me use it,” John offered Sherlock the coat after shaking off excess water.

“Oh, right,” Sherlock sputtered awkwardly as he hung the coat on a nearby coat hanger. “The previous owners abandoned it and it went unclaimed, so after stumbling across it I just started using it for personal reasons. It gives me a place to get away now and then.”

He withdrew a pack of L&B Silver Superkings, and pulled one out with his teeth before holding the package out to John. 

“Fag?” He inquired as he lit up.

“Trying to kick the habit,” John responded, shaking his head.

With a shrug, the pack went back into his pocket and Sherlock lazily flopped on one of the sofas. It was obviously dated and its fabric had become a dull gray tweed. John took a seat next to Sherlock, sitting a respectable distance away.

“Seems like a pretty good place to come and forget,” John commented as he looked around the place. Empty racks where costumes were once draped, dusty and dirty mirrors, shelves once donned with props filled the majority of the building. Standing out from the surroundings was the couch, piles of notebooks, novels, a violin case, and a few other bric-à-bracs. 

Sherlock took several long draws off the fag, exhaling deeply each time. Sherlock pondered over a particular subject in the back of his mind.

"I can tell the brand of a combat boot solely based off the pattern left in dirt. I can also deduce the brand of fag based solely off of its scent and a small portion of the filter or ash left behind. Yet I can’t understand humans and their emotions. Like you, let’s face it. You’re as straight as an eight. Why bother with the pointless troubles that ensue with the even more pointless subject of love? And what makes you prefer men over women? Or straight blokes prefer women over men? It’s all so silly.”

Sherlock certainly was a few steps beyond tipsy. It was steadily creeping on him but more concerned with the subject at hand he paid it no mind. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend any downtime getting three sheets to the wind. It was better than his usual opium and morphine. His brother had proven all too willing to bring his parents into the matter if Sherlock persisted down that road. Now all that was left was the few track marks that hadn’t healed up yet.

John considered the words for several moments, unsure of how to respond to the question. He had never honestly considered it. Was this Sherlock’s form of advancement on him? Was the ball in his court now?

“I don’t know, really. I just prefer blokes. Deep down I always knew it subconsciously as a kid. There was an attraction I couldn’t really explain or understand. It was just there. The same way you like women - ” before John continued Sherlock held up a hand in John’s face.

Sherlock had produced another bottle of liquor. The bottle itself was clear with a red cap and label. Sherlock took a few swigs of the gin before holding it out to John, then he took a few more drags off the fag before flicking the butt into a corner. John grabbed the bottle and took a swig as Sherlock spoke.

“At no point have I claimed to fancy women!” Sherlock quickly corrected him, a slight slur creeping into his words.

John grimaced at the bitter taste. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the couch. Was Sherlock toying with him? Was this some sort of game?

“Love is weakness, because…” Sherlock trailed off. “Because it clouds one’s judgment and ability to process. All I’ve known is my logic. It has protected me and helped me understand the world around me. To allow it to be clouded by love is an unnerving thought.” Within an instant though, clarity appeared within Sherlock’s eyes. “It also has proven to be the downfall of so many and quite possibly the most common motive in the cases I have been involved with. Thus, the love is nothing but an error and fallacy in the human mind.” 

Sherlock couldn’t begin doubting what he knew to be true; that love was just a human flaw. He couldn’t doubt that right now, or ever. And yet next to him sat John - a perfect stranger - that somehow managed to capture his attention and discredit all that he believed to be fact on emotions and love.

John grimaced at the sudden change in tone and speech. There was a certain attraction to the way that Sherlock would display his intelligence and keen sense of his surroundings; almost as if he were inquired about the weather rather than displaying his intellectual prowess. The fact that he was gorgeous to boot was just the icing on the cake; his angular chin, narrow cheeks, prominent cheek bones, piercing green eyes, and pale complexion. It was all so perfect.

Suddenly, a pair of lips had latched onto John’s. Cold steel pressed into his lower lip as they deepened their first kiss. His mind reeled and tried to regain control, but instead he just sunk into the couch as his body relaxed. The taller man put off more heat than John imagined possible. John’s hands held Sherlock’s face as there was the briefest break for air before a reunion between the two. Everything was moving so quickly, John could barely keep up with it all.

~o~o~

John stirred from his sleep, his back and neck aching. His considerably blurred vision took several moments to clear before he finally focused in on his surroundings. He couldn’t pinpoint the noise that had woken him until he saw the flashing green light on his mobile. Stretching across the way to grab it, without falling off of the sofa he had fallen asleep on from the night before, John grabbed his mobile and thumbed through the passcode. The notification tone was not his normal one, but it sounded oddly familiar. After a few moments of thought, John realized that it sounded like the same noise Sherlock had made the night before when he was pondering; a smooth, baritone ‘hmm’.

Hmm, the phone let out another inquisitive sound.

The backlight from the phone’s display wasn’t bright enough to send an urge to his gut to chunk it across the room, but bright enough to manage a few curses from John.

Do you snog every guy you know after only one meeting? - SH

Side note, you’re a terribly violent sleeper. – SH 

At some point during the night you slid from your t-shirt. I placed it next to the sofa on the pile of books. – SH

And no, nothing happened last night. – SH

See you around. – SH

John stared at the line of messages. What all had happened last night? John recalled Sherlock had begun kissing him. After that? It mostly became a blur of emotions and inebriation. And who was this Sherlock fellow anyways? The fact Sherlock needed a bolt-hole to escape his brother who was employed by the British government was quite unnerving.

John had just woken after a hot and steamy night of snogging quite possibly one of the most attractive blokes he had encountered in ages, and he was concerned about the others past? Now John’s cock was doing all the thinking for him. With a sigh, John finally brought himself to his feet. Stumbling forward before gaining his balance, he wobbled over to the stack of books his shirt rested on, neatly folded, and rubbed the sleep from his light-sensitive eyes.

Glancing down at the clock on his phone, John uttered another slew of curses. 

“Bollocks! I’m going to be late for work!” 

Grabbing his shirt up, John was out of the door in a matter of moments. Setting aside all thoughts of what his future held, or even if he would see Sherlock again, he took off at a brisk run down the street.

Little did John know, a paramount of excitement would soon riddle his daily life.


End file.
